


Little Frictions

by Catwithamauser



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Beardless Frank, F/M, Oral Sex, Reunion Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-04
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-08-19 10:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8202470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catwithamauser/pseuds/Catwithamauser
Summary: Frank returns.  Things are mostly the same.  Except his beard.
Or, Frank and Laurel have beardless sex.





	

It’s only when he’s standing in front of her, arms crossed over his chest, leaning casually against the dresser in the shitty off ramp motel that’s both near and nowhere near the airport, that she realizes that it's over, finally, finally over. It doesn’t hit her while the others are there, shouting their questions, their anger, their doubts, doesn’t really sink in until they’re alone, until it's quiet, finally, and she can just take him in, appreciate, finally, that he’s there, with her, real and whole.

She had intended to take him back to her apartment when it was all over, Laurel really, really had. But they’d gotten in the car and it was silent, finally, and still and calm and Laurel had just kept driving, missed her turnoff and wound up on the highway heading out of town and had kept driving, just letting the silence of the car wrap around her like a blanket, sneaking glances over at Frank, catching his own gaze sometimes, before looking away, embarrassed, but eyes drifting back to his face, always, trying to reassure herself that he’s really there, really there with her.

She’d balked somehow at the idea of leaving the city, had pulled off on an exit somewhere in southwest Philly, found a hotel where she was somewhat hopeful they wouldn’t be murdered and killed the engine, found a room.

And now here they are, Laurel leaning slumped against the door, legs kicked out in front of her and Frank, Frank who she was becoming certain she’d never see again, with his strong jaw and sad eyes and crooked smirk. And now he’s here, real and breathing and scowling and face still streaked with drying tears, but he’s here and he’s not leaving her, not again.

They stare at each other, connection sizzling between them across the space of the small room, the connection she was sure would be lost still sparking, still pulling at them both, tension humming thick and sharp. He’s staring at her like he’s convinced she’ll vanish if he looks away, like she’s a mirage, eyes wide and unblinking and shining.

“Hi,” he says, voice low and rough, gaze still fixed on her face.

“Hi,” she echoes, soft like a whisper, finding herself smiling.

Frank smiles too, small and soft and still crooked, still smirking. Once that would have been enough for them, would have set the spark between them surging into a flame, but now, well, now Laurel isn't sure, isn't sure what lingers between them, what it is that still burns in her heart, in her chest for him.

“I missed you,” he tells her, voice soft and rough still, rough like sandpaper with emotion, with something that she thinks verges on tears. She used to know him, know his tones and his cadences and his looks, all the full range of subtleties that made up Frank himself. And now, now she’s not so sure, like he’s a half-remembered dream, like a language she hasn’t spoken in years.

“I know,” she says, wondering how much she should say, how much she should open her heart to him, now when he’s back and real and with her, but not hers, not hers anymore. She wants him to be hers, but well, its been months and she doesn’t know what they are anymore, where they stand. But Laurel’s spent enough of her life being silent, holding her tongue and she goes for broke now, because after all this time she knows she can’t lose him again, not if he’ll take her, not if there’s any hope of having what they once did. “I missed you too. I…I love you; now, then, I never stopped loving you.”

“I know,” there’s a pause, long and echoing before he grins his slanted grin, crooked and smirking and so, so familiar still, his eyes soft. “I love you too.”

“Good,” she says firmly, heart hammering in her chest.

His grin spreads wider, teasing. “Good.”

And then the silence echoes through the room, heavy and pressing down on them, smothering them because it’s been months and they love each other but they’ve missed so much, left things so suddenly that she’s not sure it will be easy to return to where they were, to get back what she’d thought they lost.

And there’s so many things they need to say to each other, to talk about if they have any hope of resurrecting what they had, what Laurel thought they had, if they have any hope of being able to move forward, together. But Laurel can’t, she can’t do it tonight, can’t talk, can’t force Frank to talk, not now when they’re both ragged and frayed and exhausted, when all they both want, Laurel knows, is to feel, to remind themselves that the other is real and whole and unbroken. There are so many things to say, but neither of them have the words to say them, not yet and if they aren’t able to talk, Laurel isn't sure what’s left for them.

But then Frank’s surging forward, pushing himself off the wall and stalking towards her, fire in his eyes, and pressing her against the door, one hand sliding soft against her cheek and the other tangling in her hair and tugging, just hard enough that she gasps in something like pain, something like pleasure as his lips meet hers. He swallows the sound down as he kisses her deeply, one hand now at her hip, tracing little circles against the sharpness of her hipbone, teeth nipping at her bottom lip until she opens his mouth to his, kisses her until Laurel gasps again.

His hands, his lips, his body are familiar to her, still, like calling up muscle memory, but sharply different, his mouth, his cheeks smooth now and soft, nothing like the rough prick of his beard against her skin, nothing like the sweet, burning rasp as he kisses her breathless. She doesn’t think she’s kissed anyone without facial hair since she was sixteen and the feeling is strange, jarring, especially because Frank’s body is so familiar to her, still, like it belongs to her, like he never left her.

Her hand goes to his hair to press his lips closer to her, press him closer to her, she can’t get enough of him, but she startles as her fingers meet the short, prickly strands of his buzzed hair. Another difference, the rasp of short spikey hair where she doesn’t expect, the smooth whisper of skin where expects his beard to be. But still Frank, always Frank, the same press of his fingers, the same softness in his lips, the same laughter moving behind his eyes.

He tangles his tongue with hers, one hand rucking up the material of her shirt until his fingers can slip under, expand the idle patterns he’s tracing against her side.

He’s entirely too in control, Laurel thinks, wishing his hair were longer so she could tug, hard, at the strands, wishing he was the one gasping, but she knows him, knows his body still and knows what it takes to set him desperate and wild eyed for her.

Her lips move away from his, press a string of kisses along the angle of his jaw, suck an angry red mark against his pulse point because he’s hers and something in her, some small scared creature is desperate to see evidence of it, to know that he’s back and hers and to claim him, mark him so that even if he does run away again, vanish, there will be something of her on his body, at least at first. Her hands slip under the material of his soft t-shirt, gliding against the hard plane of his abs, nails catching.

She can’t help it, doesn’t really even want to help it, so she makes another pass of her nails against his stomach, harder this time, until he hisses against her shoulder, and she can see his eyes fall closed. Her hand moves, pulling his shirt off in one go, lips moving back to his, wanting to catch the sound she knows it coming, swallow it down and make it hers, make him hers. Her tongue meets his like war and one hand glides up the expanse of his back until it catches against his shoulder blades. She growls against his skin, her other hand tugging what she can of his hair, giving him what warning she can, before her nails dig into the skin of his shoulders, score long, angry lines down his back, red and hot.

Frank gasps, as she knew he would, the sound turning into a moan before she’s finished, his body stuttering forward, tightly against hers, hips framing hers and pressing, hard and wanting, against her.

“Shoulda known,” he whispers against her lips, not even pulling back half a millimeter to speak and Laurel can feel the slyness of his smile. “Shoulda known you’d wanna teach me a lesson.”

She’s just about to tell him he’s wrong, just about to push back far enough that he can see her frown, deeply, as she tells him he’s wrong when Frank continues, pressing quick kisses against the corners of her mouth.

“Shoulda known you’d wanna remind me I can’t run away, not from you, not from this,” he says, fingers coming now between their bodies to work, quick and practiced, at the button of her slacks, the zipper. “That you an me, we’re always gonna be you an me now.”

She surges forward, lips meeting his in a heated tangle, heart filled to bursting, because he does understand, what they are, what they always will be, understands that they can’t escape what they are.

Laurel turns her head then, gives his lips, his tongue, his teeth access to the long span of her neck, the sweet space behind her ear. Frank stills, breathing in deeply, slowly, breathing her in like he’s trying to drink her down. And then his lips are sliding against her skin, hot, fast, teeth nipping quick and sharp before his lips soothe her heated flesh. His smooth face glides against her skin, nothing like the familiar rasp, sweet and pointed but still causes the same clench, low in her gut, the same rush of blood through her body, the same hard knot of desire, always wanting him, needing him like air.

His lips trail down her neck, linger against the arc of her collarbone, nipping until she knows bruises begin to bloom, red and angry against the paleness of her skin, marking her as she’s marked him. He soothes the heated skin with his tongue, his lips, before trailing further down her chest, till he pauses just above the swell of her breasts, hands making quick work of the buttons of her shirt.

She gasps, hands still carding through the short strands of his hair as he kisses along the cup of her bra, his lips still pressing kisses to her chest. Desire rages through her blood, burning hot and fast and Laurel clenches her legs together, already soaked for him, feels the delicious slide of her thighs, friction where she needs it most, her hands scrabbling against the wall behind her, desperate for something, anything to cling to, to which she can anchor herself.

There’s only Frank, there’s always been only Frank, the only steady thing in her life since law school and Annalise began, even in his absence she felt his presence everywhere, grounding her, reminding her of why she was fighting, why she was still standing at all.

So she wraps her hands around his shoulders, grounds herself to him, fingers clutching at the muscled expanse of his back, his shoulders. He straightens and kisses her, slowly and deeply, gasps into her mouth as one of her hands slides against his hip, dips lower to brush against the front of his pants, bulged and straining against the material.

But then her hands pause against the buckle of his belt, stilling her efforts to rid him of his pants, her grin sharp, teasing and her eyebrows raised suggestively, glance pointed. “I can get used to the hair, to you looking like a teenage boy without the beard, but please, please tell me you didn’t shave everything.”

Frank snorts with laughter, tugs again at the material of her pants, slipping them slowly down her legs, sinking to his knees before her.

“That wasn’t an answer Frank,” she says, trying to keep her voice level, keep the tremble out of it as he presses a kiss just above the elastic of her underwear, breath fanning against her center.

He hums, chuckles low and dangerous. “Guess you’re just gonna have to find out for yourself.”

“I think you’re overestimating my curiosity,” she murmurs, biting back the beginnings of a moan, forcing the tremor from her voice, canting her hips in response to the press of his mouth. “I’d rather keep you right where you are.”

Frank chuckles again, darkly, rids her of the last scrap of clothing, slipping the material down her legs. He nips against her hipbone, the slickness coating her inner thighs, teeth pulling bruises from her skin, pulling high, desperate whines from her throat until Laurel spreads her hips wide, gives him better access to where they both want him.

Again, Frank stills, his eyes, his hands so, so soft, pausing to breathe her in, the heady scent of her. The flat of Frank’s tongue darts out, runs against the length of her entrance, and again, his touch is tentative somehow, hesitant.

“Frank,” she growls as the third stroke of his tongue is no faster, no harder, teasing. “Frank, please.”

Her hand goes to his hair again, hips jumping to meet his lips and her hand pressing him closer, always closer. He must get the hint because suddenly his lips are around her clit, sucking, hard, at the little nub, mixing quick, sharp bites with the strokes of his tongue, leaving her practically sobbing with want.

There’s no skidding, no friction, none of the sweet tug of his beard against her thighs, her center and the glide is, well, she doesn’t hate it, but it leaves something lacking, something that she didn’t realize she grew used to, grew to need. The rasp of his stubble against her center always gave her the little hint of pain to enhance the pleasure he always brought her. But now, God, now there is just his mouth, the sweet glide of his tongue and its too much and not enough at the same time.

At her desperate cries, Frank increases the pressure against her center, the pace of his strokes against her clit and she can feel him smirk against her, mouth wide.

“Miss me?” he asks, pausing his efforts and looking up at her, the black of his pupils practically threatening to swallow everything else in his wanting, his eyes flashing and his mouth, his chin shining with her juices, with evidence of just how much she missed him. “Miss this?”

“No,” she tells him, the breathiness of her voice betraying the lie, her legs nearly trembling with the effort it takes Laurel to keep herself upright.

“Liar,” he smirks, teeth catching against her hip before he moves back to her center, alternating the pressure of his mouth, his tongue until she’s reduced to a quivering, shaking mess, until she isn't sure whether his touches will be feather light or hard, almost brutal, punishing. The changes in his touch, the changes in the press of his mouth, it’s all too much for her already ragged, worn thin brain. It’s been so, so long and she missed him so, so much and God, Laurel thinks, she loves him so, so much, not just his tongue, the things his mouth can do to her, but all of him, his crooked smiles and the thump of his heart and the little snorts, the little sighs he makes in his sleep, and the little furrows in his brow when he’s frustrated, and his cooking and the stupid, stupid YA books he’s always reading.

“I am,” she agrees, voice high and torn as he continues to lick, with hard, sharp strokes at her center, teeth catching against her clit as he sucks the swollen bud into his mouth. “I missed your mouth.”

“Just my mouth?” he purrs, pressing two long, thick fingers against her entrance, slipping inside up to his first knuckles because she is so, so desperate for him.

“No,” she admits, laugh bubbling from deep in her chest, a laugh that turns to a sound like a moan as Frank slips his fingers inside her, pumps them quickly and setting her hips jumping to match his thrusts. “I miss your fingers too.”

“Yeah?” he asks, between the strokes of his tongue, the strokes of his hand.

“And your beard, Frank,” she tells him when she can steady her breathing, swallow down her little whines of pleasure. “I miss…I miss your beard.”

“I’ll grow it back,” her murmurs against her center, punctuating his words with the lazy stroke of his tongue. “Promise.”

“I don’t care what you do,” she tells him, practically sobbing now, so close and so far from where she needs to be. “Just make me come, Frank, please.”

She can feel his chuckle against her center, vibrations pulsing through her body, working in time with the press of his tongue, the glide of his fingers.

Frank glances up at her, never pausing in his movements, eyes drowning in pleasure and must be able to tell what his low purring chuckle has done to her because he makes the noise again, the strokes of his tongue suddenly feather light, soft and slow and the sudden change in speed, in pressure, the sudden absence is too much for her frayed brain.

The pleasure both builds and bottoms out, all at once, crashing against her in waves that never actually seem to ebb, to flow, just a constant stream of want, of feeling overwhelming her, making her cry out, the pleasure to much to keep inside her body, wrung from her skin by the strokes of Frank’s tongue as he continues to drink her down.

She comes hard and fast, Frank’s fingers against her hips grounding her, anchoring her to the earth, but also slowly, running through her for seconds that feel like minutes that feel like hours as the pleasure washes over her.

Frank continues the slow, lazy strokes of his tongue, helps her ride through it, his lips, his tongue swallowing down the last evidence of her desire like he can’t get enough of her taste, no, like he missed her taste, like he was aching and wanting for her just as Laurel was for him, as the shuddering of her body, her high cries fade and quiet like the last tremblings of an earthquake.

Her body loose and ragged, her hand still against the back of Frank’s head, she tugs him up her body, kisses him deeply and with desperation, tongue tangling with his and tasting herself on his mouth, another moan bursting out of her chest as she does.

Her hips spread wide, hand snaking down between their bodies to tug at his belt, tug apart the zipper of his jeans, shove his pants and boxers down his narrow hips, setting his cock springing free between them as her lips migrate to his neck, suck against his Adam’s apple, his pulse point until Frank bucks against her, his swollen cock nudging against her hip, until he gasps out a groan of pleasure. Her hand moves to grasp him, slip her fingers against cock, sliding over him until he too is gasping and crying out and bucking into her fist.

Laurel moves to kiss him again before dropping to her knees in front of him, hand still moving over his cock, her lips pulling into a wide, teasing smile. “Looks like you were smart enough to keep some hair, because otherwise this’d be a really lonely night for you.”

Frank barks out a sharp laugh, but the sound breaks, stutters as she takes him into her mouth, her lips, her tongue running over him. Beard, no beard, Laurel thinks, swirling her tongue over the head of his cock, it’s no difference, it doesn't matter, because this, this thing between them is still there, still, burning hot and fast between them, the connection pulled tight like a wire, pulling her to him, him to her. He’s hers and she’s his and that’s enough for her, enough to keep her wanting him, always, enough to conquer anything, any challenge.

Any challenge, she thinks, lips pulling into a smirk around him, even clean shaven Frank.


End file.
